


Incentives To Win.

by entanglednow



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's pretty sure he has a mild concussion the first time</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incentives To Win.

You spar with anyone for long enough and it starts to get boring. You knows each other's strengths, weaknesses, know how they move, how they think, what they'll take advantage of. You know the odds of every move being a feint. Oh Natasha's good enough to mix and match and try new things, make them her own. But even she can't change the way she was trained.

Sometimes you just have to make it worth it. So they've developed incentives for winning.

Bruises, shallow cuts and fractures are acceptable, but no injuries worse than that. Cheating via technology is permissible, cheating via natural disaster is, oddly enough, permissible (though that was probably more a freak accident than planned, at least Clint hopes so.) Involving other people is in the 'cheating which isn't allowed' column (and yes, the Hulk counts as people.) Sometimes the winner gets to decide where to eat, or new toys, or a day off the grid, or to do all the menial crap that no one really wants to, like paperwork, or laundry.

Sometimes the winner gets to fuck the loser, however they like.

So, yeah, the incentives for winning are pretty good.

It's just a bitch that Natasha tends to win.

A lot.

***

Clint's pretty sure he has a mild concussion the first time. He doesn't know whether that makes it better or just distorts his memory in a way the medical profession probably wouldn't have approved of.

In hindsight he knows he'd tried way too hard, and Natasha had been ready for him.

He was still trying to focus when Natasha stole his belt, and his pants. No one should be able to fight their way out of a catsuit with anything coming close to grace, but Natasha had slithered out of it and then pinned him to the mat, knees digging into his ribs. She'd curled over him like a tiger, and then opened around him, all wet, constricting heat, eyes flint-hard through her hair. Her fingers had wrapped round his throat, a breath away from squeezing, in a way that said she'd snap his neck if he even thought about disappointing her.

Clint had had a hard time remembering whether he'd won or lost.

She'd finished in slow, easy movements, long fingers pushed down where they joined, working against the pressure. He'd been so fucking close, and then she'd pulled away, left him hard on the mat. She'd watched him get himself off, staring the whole time with a bland sort of disinterest. Which had been way hotter than it should have been.

Win.

Totally a fucking win.

***

Natasha doesn't have to cheat, she just needs a focus, she just needs to want it badly enough. So, in hindsight giving her something to 'win' might have been a bad move. But Clint can't deny how much fun he's having, even when he's mottled all the colours of under-ripe fruit, and spraining everything he has, even things he hadn't even known you could sprain. 

Natasha had looked at him at the beginning, just once, a fleeting query as to whether she should stop. But whatever she'd seen in his face had made one of her eyebrows flick up - something like a smile, barely there, almost forgettable - almost.

She'd never asked after that.

Natasha seemed to work off the assumption that if you couldn't feel it then you weren't really trying. Clint figured she'd be disappointed if he didn't make the effort. So the next time he'd gone all out - ended up with his arms twisted and tied together behind his back, ribs creaking a warning on every breath. Natasha's mouth had been bright red - and that was the first he'd known he was bleeding.

She'd been careful not to put too much weight on his ribs. But she certainly hadn't been gentle with the rest of him.

***

She doesn't get the drop on him all the time.

Clint rigs a flashbang to go off in his bag, and has a handful of seconds to enjoy the victory - long enough to flip Natasha, and get her workout pants down her legs. Before she kicks them free and gets those same legs around his neck, twisting him under her. He's the one that ends up on his back with Natasha's thighs either side of his head.

The woman's a bad loser.

Natasha gives a sharp tug on his hair to make a point and he lifts his hands to her hips, drawing her up, and she's slick wet against his lips and tongue. She makes a noise that sounds like victory, and arches into his mouth like she deserves it.

***

The showers are neutral ground. That's another thing that's on the list - and it's not an actual list so much as a spider diagram with an ever-shifting centre, because in their line of work a bad day that involves razor blades can really put you off of blood in your sex life, or it can make you want it. They've gone too long without judging to worry about it, they just amend the list as necessary.

That's what Clint assumes Natasha's going to do when she looks at him for too long, water streaming down the side of her face.

"Anything?" she asks through wet hair. She doesn't say anything else, but Clint's getting good at reading the stuff she doesn't say as well as the stuff she does.

"Anything you want," he says, without hesitation. It's not that he's into a bunch of stuff, it's the fact that it's Natasha and she doesn't ever really _want_ anything. So he doesn't even have to think about it.

***

He's not quite sure how he loses when they spar after the whole robot tiger incident. One moment he has her in a headlock - and the next he's face down on the mat and his sweatpants are gone.

Natasha's shoving his thighs open with a knee, twisting his arm up.

The floor tastes like dirt and Clint can't breathe. His left arm's pressed up his back, and one of Natasha's elbows is grinding painfully hard into his spine. Her other hand is busy, working two spit-slick fingers inside him, and he wants to say something sarcastic and cutting about how he's going to win at some point. But he's lost the ability to form consonants, or really anything except for the strained, huffy little grunting noises she's pulling out of him with every thrust. Because Natasha gets what she wants, and he's never had a problem with that.

"Next time I'm going to bring a strap-on and fuck you properly."

He's kind of ashamed about how hard he comes after that.

***

Clint learns three weeks later that Natasha never promises things she isn't prepared to go through with.

He's pretty sure the whole winning/losing thing doesn't really apply any more.

 


End file.
